do with that bottle of brandy?’
‘Need a stiffener before you face it?’ she asked, passing it to him.
The light went out and she heard him unscrew the cap. ‘Give me your hands.’
About to ask why, she thought better of it and held them out without a word as he placed one of his own beneath them. Then he poured the spirit over both of their hands and she let slip something brief and scatological as the spirit found its way into the scrapes and grazes, bringing tears to her eyes.
‘Antiseptic,’ he said. ‘And it’ll dry out your skin. Help with grip.’
‘Thanks,’ she said cryptically.
‘Don’t mention it.’ He tucked the bottle back into the bag hanging from her back, then said, ‘You’d better give me that.’
‘Are you sure about that? It’ll be a bad look,’ she warned as she lifted the strap over her head and surrendered it to him. ‘It definitely won’t match your shoes.’
‘You know that for a fact, do you?’
‘I can’t believe you’re wearing silver sandals.’
‘Please tell me you’re kidding.’ Then, ‘No. Don’t say another word. I’d rather not know.’
He didn’t wait but, using the small light, he began to move away from her. Having mentally slapped herself on the wrist for being a bad girl—but honestly, any man who seriously believed any girl with a grain of sense would wear silver sandals in the rainforest deserved to be teased—she began to follow him, further scuffing the toes of her expensive loafers as she crawled after him on her hands and knees.
Sensible, after all, did not have to be cheap. Or lack style.
Ahead of her, Jago stood up, turning back to take her arm and help her to her feet. About to remind him that she could manage, she felt her knee buckle slightly. Muffled by all the other aches and pains she was suffering, she’d forgotten about her knee.
‘Okay?’
‘Fine.’ There was a long moment of silence and she knew he was looking at her, trying to gauge just how fine she really was. ‘Absolutely dandy,’ she assured him. ‘No problem. How’s your head?’
‘I’ll live.’ Then, ‘Let’s get on with it.’
In the darkness she found her ears filling in the pictures; the sound of cloth brushing against skin as he moved, of muscles stretching as he reached up, using the tiny light to illuminate the first of the hand-holds that he’d pinpointed on the photograph. Then everything went dark again.
He didn’t begin to climb away from her, however, but reached back and found her hand, lifting it to a narrow crack so that she could feel it for herself, would know how far to stretch, what she was looking for. Have a starting point.
‘Got that?’ he asked.
‘Got it,’ she assured him.
‘Okay. We’ll take it one move at a time. I’ll give you a running commentary of my moves so that you can follow them.’ Then, ‘We’re climbing blind and it’s not going to be easy and it’s not going to be quick. Stop for rests whenever you need to. Don’t try to rush it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She didn’t actually leap to attention and salute, but the voice implied it and he didn’t actually sigh. His momentary pause was enough.
‘I hear you, Jago,’ she added quickly, wanting him to know that she was with him every step of the way.
‘Right.’ Then, ‘Whatever you do, don’t panic. If you’re in trouble, tell me. I’d rather come back a few feet to give you a hand than climb back down to the bottom after listening to you scream all the way down.’
She swallowed, lifted her chin.
‘If it helps,’ she replied, ‘you have my promise that I’ll do my best not to scream.’
MANDA bit back a yelp as her hand slipped, scraping her knuckles against sharp stone.
It had seemed easy enough at first. The back of the eagle had formed a slope, a fairly steep one, and there were plenty of hand-holds—fissures, small ledges just big enough for her feet, where it had cracked as it had fallen.
But then they reached the wall itself and the climb became harder. Her muscles began to burn with the effort of pulling herself up, her arms to shake and it soon became obvious that all the hand-holds in the world wouldn’t get her to the top if she didn’t have the strength to hold on.
Breathing was becoming a problem too, her chest aching with the strain. Only by concentrating on the calm, steady voice of Jago, guiding her onwards and upwards, was she able to block out the worst of it. Keep moving.
She didn’t manage to completely stifle her difficulty in breathing, however, and finally he paused above her and said, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Peachy,’ she managed, going for sarcasm in an attempt to disguise her pain.
‘There’s a good ledge here. We’ll take a rest…’
‘Right.’ Excellent. Except that her fingers were numb and she didn’t have the strength to move. Instead, she leaned her face against the cold, damp rock wall.
‘A couple of feet,’ he prompted.
Forget the comfort of the ancient leather sofa in the Belgravia mansion that she had, until recently, called home, his rock ledge sounded like heaven right now.
And about as close…
Above her, small stones were dislodged from the wall and for a moment she thought that he was moving on without her.
‘Jago…’
Even as the word was involuntarily torn from her he was at her side, his arm, then his body at her back, holding her tight against the wall. Taking the strain.
‘Let go,’ he said, his mouth so close to her ear that his neck was tight against her head, his breath, no more than a gasp, warm against her cheek. ‘I’ve got you.’
‘I can’t…’
‘Trust me.’
How many times had she heard those words? How many times had they been hollow lies?
‘I’m okay,’ she told him, hating this. ‘Just catching my breath.’ She hated being weak, hated needing a prop. Just once she yearned to be the strong one, but she did as she was told, flexing her fingers, so that the blood flowed, painfully, back into them.
‘Where did you put your mints?’
‘What’s the matter? Have you eaten all yours?’
Jago
